


Silly, Outdated Things

by inabsurd



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Gore, Ford Pines-centric, Gen, Manipulative Bill Cipher, Mind Manipulation, Nightmares, Unreliable Narrator, no happy ending, portal accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabsurd/pseuds/inabsurd
Summary: The notion is as foreign as it is ridiculous; Bill, want Fiddleford dead? The two may not exactly be on good terms--or rather, Fiddleford may not be on good terms with Bill--but that’s a far cry from his muse wanting to kill his best friend.“Fiddleford, don’t be absurd-”“He wants me dead, Stanford!”AU in which Bill takes more direct action against Fiddleford and Ford is oblivious to everything.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	Silly, Outdated Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheBiggerAndBetterArchiteuthis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBiggerAndBetterArchiteuthis/gifts).



> MERRY CHRISTMAS IN *checks calendar* FEBRUARY?? oof. 
> 
> Pax I love you so much I hope the fic was worth the wait <3

He shoots awake, gasping for breath. His heart pounds loudly in his ears and, if he stares, he can see his heart thunder under his shirt and flesh. He feels it shift his bones within his body in an accelerando that refuses to falter or cease.

_It hurts,_ he thinks. The realization doesn’t come as suddenly as the thought does, so much as it feels like something that’s been overlooked and has finally made itself known.

Within him, under sinew and muscle alike, he hears something crack. The reaction is instantaneous, a white-hot pain burning under his skin as his heart beats wildly out of control. _It’s breaking the bone,_ he realizes, _My heart._

A violent outcry leaves his throat raw, then, not a moment later, the sound is cut off as an entirely new feeling steals his breath away. It’s indescribable and debilitating on the most basic level as his diaphragm refuses to respond and even thought--his very mind--blips out of existence like it’s lost signal the way his father’s television tended to during Saturday morning cartoons.

Awareness snaps back into him suddenly and painfully as he reaches the pinnacle of pain with a burning rush of air.

The fire within him becomes external in an instant, flames spewing from his chest like he’s a human sparkler. He comes face-to-heated-face with glittering cyan, a familiar laugh echoing in his ears--

* * *

Ford wakes up, groggy and sore, with a bad taste lingering in his mouth.

Lately, no matter how much sleep he gets, he never awakens feeling rested. Bill says it will pass once his body becomes used to the long hours, but, for the moment, it’s disorientating and sometimes painful. Stanford almost wishes that they could go back to the nights when his body was no one’s but his own and he didn’t find himself face-down in a toolbox the next morning, but these are the sacrifices he must make for progress.

Fiddleford doesn’t share his sentiment and has wasted no time making it known to both Ford and Bill. The engineer seems to hold Bill accountable for Stanford’s currently less-than-pristine health, which, while not _technically_ untrue, the hostility in which his friend says it is completely uncalled for. Bill is just as dedicated to the portal’s completion as himself and Fiddleford--likely, he’s even more so given that he’s spent a millennium waiting for Ford to come along--and as such, he should be treated as part of the team.

His muse had warned Stanford that revealing his existence to his long-time friend would be a mistake, but he hadn’t listened. Ford had argued that their sneaking around was only hindering the project; both because he couldn’t get nearly as much done without Bill’s guidance, and because Fiddleford had been on edge already thanks to the Gremoblin incident. The southerner had noticed Ford was hiding things and he had thought it best to share the truth rather than let his friend’s addled mind run rampant.

Bill was right, however, and the scientist should have expected as much. He placed his faith in his friend’s mind--his recently traumatized and deeply disturbed mind--over the word of his omnipotent muse. Bill had seen this outcome from a mile away and Stanford had persisted anyway.

Now shame flares deep within his chest whenever Fiddleford makes a remark about Bill’s involvement, a constant reminder of his hubris.

He’s lucky Bill is such an understanding friend who is willing to forgive Stanford for his mistakes. Working with humans is something Bill is, not _used to,_ per se, but _prepared for._ He knows that human beings make mistakes and his plans and deadlines have a certain level of flexibility to them in accordance with the expected human error. 

This doesn’t lessen the guilt Ford feels, but his muse had said he has a contingency plan in place in the event that Fiddleford is no longer able to set aside his bias for the sake of the project; this takes a huge load off of Ford’s shoulders.

It’s comforting to know that no matter what may happen, Bill will oversee the portal’s construction until the very end.

* * *

There’s something in his house. Something that shouldn’t be there.

He can’t see it, can’t seem to find it, but Ford hears it sifting about in any room he’s not currently in. It’s rearranging things, from the sounds of it. He hears books hitting the ground and the scrape of desks being rearranged.

He turns the corner, sharply, hoping to catch the creature off guard, but there’s nothing there. Quite literally, nothing. The furniture of his living room is missing entirely, bare patches dust the only sign the things ever existed.

Smug laughter echoes from his kitchen, followed by the squeaking of his sink taps.

“Who’s there?” he demands as he enters the room. This one is empty as well, right down to his cupboard doors. The sink is full of water, spilling over the edge and onto his floor. He moves to turn off the taps, maybe soak up the mess with his coat seeing as all of his tea towels have disappeared, but an angry whirring stops him.

It’s coming from the lab.

The stairs creak under his weight, a desperate cry of protest as he presses further into the darkness. Each step seems more dangerous than the last, nails protruding from the wood and rot eating away at the integrity of others. His feet fall through the wood several times on his way down, and the stairs just keep going. He knows his basement isn’t this far down, knows he should have hit the elevator by now, but he hasn’t, so he presses forward. His legs drip blood behind him, and the darkness stretches on.

Wood breaks under him at each step now. His pants are torn all the way to his knees at this point and his shoes are scratched and torn to the point of uselessness. The grips, or what’s left of them, may as well not exist with the way his feet slide out from under him each step.

The stairs are slick beneath him, and he wishes it were light enough to tell with what. He thinks it must be water from his sink and the taps he left turned on, but it smells too metalic to be water.

Stanford continues, hands pressed tight to the sides of the wall on either side of him. As he slips yet again, he can’t help that think that, maybe, Fiddleford had a point about needing to install a handrail. 

The walls make a decent enough purchase--or they have in the past on the odd occasion he’s gone down to the lab without armfuls of material, blueprints, and experiments--but as he walks on, he finds them to be more harmful than helpful. The walls, usually smooth to the touch, are rough beneath his fingers in the best spots, and sharp in the worst. His hands are as bloody as his feet within minutes, and he soon finds that he cannot even draw them away to protect himself.

The walls, he realizes, are much closer than when he began his trek. Before, he had to reach out to use the wall as support. Now, when his hands are too wet with blood to stabilize himself, the walls have pressed in so much that he doesn’t have the elbow room to maneuver away with ease.

Twisting himself sideways allows the scientist to free his arms, but one step later leaves him unable to turn forwards again. The walls have narrowed further, and Stanford’s back and chest press tight to the jagged stone around him.

An awkward sidestep tears into him in an instant, red hot blood rushing out of torn flesh. A second step has much the same effect, only this next cut is centred elsewhere.

The following steps are much the same, and Stanford finds himself having to grit his teeth with each inch of ground gained. At this point, he’s not even sure he’s going downstairs so much as he’s wading through a sea of splinters. His back, his legs, his face, everything protests his movement as he flesh parts under sharp stone.

He’s certain that, if he could see the path he travels, there wouldn’t be an inch of his body not marred by the journey.

He presses forward.

(He never once considers the damage he takes along the way; never once questions if the destination is worth the pain.)

* * *

The lab’s floor, like most basement rooms, is cement. It’s cold, hard, and in desperate need of a good sweep even though it doesn’t look like it in the dim lighting. Ford’s not looking at it though, he’s on it, and he can feel the dirt clinging to his skin as he sits up.

His head throbs, his joints are stiff from the cold that has seeped into his body, and he’s missing his tie. Overall, not the worst condition he’s ever woken up in, and this wouldn’t be the first time he’s done so on the floor.

Heavy breathing catches his attention from further in the room.

The lights aren’t on--Bill must have been working in the dark--and there are no windows to illuminate the gloom of the lab, but Stanford can still recognize the slim form of his friend hidden in the dark.

“Fiddleford, how goes the construction of the hard drive?” he asks, pulling himself off the ground. His knees protest the movement as though he’s thirty years older than he actually is; Ford will have to remind his muse to be more careful with where he leaves the body once he finishes his work.

The engineer doesn’t answer. He stares at Ford, wide-eyed and breathing heavily.

“Fiddleford?” Ford asks, concerned. Perhaps his friend is having another one of his episodes; the kind where the terror overtakes him and he forgets where he is. The scientist takes a step forward, arms raised in mock surrender, “You’re safe,” he reminds gently, “Do you know where you are?”

Apparently, he’s moved too quickly, “S-stay away!” Fiddleford’s voice is scratched raw from terror and he jerks backwards.

“It’s okay,” Stanford soothes, or tries. He’s never been the greatest at dealing with people, but this, at least, he has some practice in. 

The scientist moves forwards once more, but his friend isn’t letting him get close. He stumbles backwards, violent and uncoordinated, “Get away!”

“Fiddleford, please-”

He’s cut off by the shattering of glass and a strangled scream from the engineer at its impact. The sound leaves his friend shivering and twitching, like something is simply pressing on random nerves within his brain to get a response, “It’s not safe here,” he says. There’s no stutter in his voice, no hesitation, just his unfounded belief in this delusion.

Ford shakes his head, “I’m not going to hurt you,” he reminds. He tries to be gentle, patient, understanding, but Fiddleford has been having these episodes for _months_ now, and Stanford isn’t quite sure what to do for him anymore. The attacks used to be so much more infrequent but now it’s almost common for him to wake up to a panicked and disoriented engineer.

“Not you,” Fiddleford shakes his head like he’s trying to physically dispel the terrors Ford knows he sees, “That _thing!_ It doesn’t care for you, Stanford, let alone for me!”

It takes a moment for the pieces to click into place, “Bill?”

A whimper and rapid head nodding, a high pitched squeaking punctuates each bob of Fiddleford’s head, “It wants to kill me, Ford, please, it wants me dead,” he’s frantic and terrified.

The notion is as foreign as it is ridiculous; Bill, want Fiddleford _dead?_ The two may not exactly be on good terms--or rather, Fiddleford may not be on good terms with Bill--but that’s a far cry from his muse wanting to _kill_ his best friend.

“Fiddleford, don’t be absurd-”

_"He wants me dead, Stanford!”_

It’s not true. With every fibre of his being, Ford knows it’s not true. Bill’s been in his head more than Stanford himself has; if he harboured ill will towards anyone, let alone his closest friend, the scientist would have known about it.

Stanford is about to protest, comfort, or something, but Fiddleford beats him to the punch, “He told me so himself,” and the man sounds so resigned to it all that all of Ford’s protests die in his throat.

“Let’s get you home,” he finally says, tongue thick in his mouth. He knows it’s not true, knows it can’t be true, _it can’t,_ but that doesn’t make him worry for his friend any less.

The walk to Fiddleford’s is thick with tension, neither man dares to speak a word the entire way. It is only when the engineer is safely beyond his house’s threshold that the man dares to say, “I’m right you know,” in a voice as fragile as glass.

The door clicks shut, but in the quiet town, it seems to echo.

* * *

His friend finally comes back to work the day Stanford sets out to test the portal. He was hoping this might happen, that his friend might want to be there to see all of their hard work come to fruition. The engineer’s even looking better! He’s not the shaking, twitching, mad man he was nearly a week ago. He’s composed himself, calmed his nerves, and is here to see the machine he helped to build in action.

Ever since the gremoblin, Fiddleford has had to take time off fairly often. It urks Bill, Ford knows, but his friend is suffering right now and Ford wants to give him as much time as he can to heal. Besides, he and Bill work quite efficiently together. Ford’s certainly not the engineer that southerner is, but they manage.

Clearly they manage quite well if they’re able to test today.

They start small; a simple test dummy will be more than enough to prove whether the human body can safely travel through a trans-dimensional gateway.

It was supposed to be easy.

In the end, Stanford blames his body. It still hasn’t adjusted to working day and night even though the scientist himself is getting the required amount of sleep. He’s tired, as he usually is, and he’s less vigilant for it. He thinks he dozes off at some point during the testing process. One moment, the mannequin is sailing straight for the portal and the next, Fiddleford has joined it where Ford can’t follow.

The rope, that damn rope, isn’t tied down like he thought it was. Fiddleford is gone in the blink of an eye, the portal closing moments later; too unstable in its testing stages to retain power for long.

The lab is dark in the absence of the portal’s light and darker yet in the absence of his friend.

Fiddleford is _gone._ Lost. Trapped on the other side of a presently unstable inter-dimensional rift and Ford isn’t sure what to do.

Bill has assured him that his dimension is safe, perfectly compatible with human lifeforms, but the process of travelling through the portal itself might not be. That’s what the testing process had been _for_ and now…Fiddleford might be dead.

He needs to get him back as soon as possible.

Stanford strides with a purpose towards the control room. The portal won’t be able to reopen, not so soon after running and not without sufficient fuel--which he doesn’t have in abundance--but at the very least he can get it prepared to open, set it up so it’ll be ready in a few hours. Fiddleford will be fine, right?

He has to be. There’s nothing more Stanford can do for him right now.

A pressure fills his head like a tire inflating with air. He knows this feeling. In the months since they first made their deal, Bill has gotten more acquainted with Stanford and his mind. He has more control; whenever Ford feels this, he knows Bill wants to speak with him.

This is perfect. Bill will know what to do.

Ford has just enough time to have a seat at the control panel before he's slumping forward to meet his muse.

* * *

His face is sticky. Grimy. Every time he blinks his eyelashes stick together and when he speaks, runs his tongue over his lips, he tastes a sharp metallic flavour. He raises a hand to his face to swipe at whatever it is coating his skin but finds he can’t see a thing.

It’s dark. Everywhere. He can’t even perceive movement in the inky blackness that permeates the room. Which room, he’s not sure; the basement perhaps? It’s certainly cold enough to be his lab. He must have forgotten the switch.

That’s...not like him though. Sure, he’s been a little out of sorts recently, but surely he wouldn’t have forgotten the light if it’s this dark without it.

_So why can’t I see?_

He stumbles forward, although he’s unsure of why he’s standing alone in the dark in the first place. What he was doing, what he was working on, where he was doing it, he has no idea. There’s a gaping hole in his head where his short term memory is supposed to be. He’s forgetting something. Several somethings. Somethings that are probably very important and would make him feel far more at ease than he currently is.

Something slick and wet slides down his cheek and hits the floor with a wet _splat!_

He freezes.

He reaches a tentative hand up towards his face, his fingertips trembling over gaunt flesh and a wet trail. Up, up, up- _oh._

Gaping hole in his head turns out to be far more literal than he’d meant. Where his fingers have come to rest, the liquid, the _blood_ is caked on much more thickly and runs in a steady, sluggish waterfall down the cliffside of his face. The waterfall pours from a cavern that was previously blocked off. The boulder, the one that had protected the entrance to this cave, the round, gelatinous thing that kept his life’s fluids safely within his body, is missing. 

He isn't unable to see because it’s dark; he's unable to see because he has nothing to see _with._

“YOU DON’T NEED THOSE SILLY, OUTDATED THINGS,” a voice, he knows that voice, says, “MY ALL-SEEING EYE IS ALL YOU’LL EVER NEED.”

Ford screams.

* * *

His face is sticky when he awakens and it sends Ford into a blind panic. He’s on his feet in an instant, hands clutching his head, his face, his _eyes,_ are his eyes still there-

He can see. He can see. His eyes are safely in his sockets. He’s fine. He’s safe.

He’s bleeding.

The air stutters in his lungs at the sight of the bloodstains on his clothes and blueprints and journal. He stares at the offending red spots for several long moments before moving forward on shaking legs to the lab’s emergency wash station. There’s a small mirror placed on the wall there, although it’s hardly seen any use since it’s installation. The mirror is cracked along the edges and faded in spots, but it serves its purpose even if it makes Ford look paler and thinner than he is.

The blood is indeed coming from his eye, but the cause seems to be nothing more serious than some burst blood vessels. The blood trickles slowly in thin streams, nowhere near as serious as he feared.

Everything’s fine. Bill warned him frequent possessions can have this effect on the human body. Ford was prepared for this and everything is the way it’s supposed to be. Bill promised him that this would be a minor inconvenience at most and Stanford accepted the consequences of being Bill’s chosen long ago.

He can trust his muse. This is normal.

Ford gazes around at the empty basement. He’s forgetting something, isn’t he?

He’d...he’d tested the portal, hadn’t he? He can’t recall. Had it worked?

_OH YEAH, SMART GUY. THE PLAN WENT OFF WITHOUT A HITCH._

Ford breathes a sigh of relief, “Bill, what happened?”

_THE PORTAL INTERFERES WITH GRAVITY_ WAY _MORE THAN WE EXPECTED. YOU TOOK A_ SMALL _KNOCK TO THE HEAD--NEARLY RUINED YOUR PERFECT IQ, IQ,_ Bill’s laugh rings out at his own joke, _NO WORRIES, THOUGH. THE PORTAL WORKED PERFECTLY ON YOUR_ **_HUMAN TEST DUMMY._ **

The scientist shudders, “That’s,” he pauses to clear his throat, “That’s wonderful, Bill.”

It _is._ It really is. But the tightness in his chest, his sweaty palms...why does he feel so afraid?

_SOMETHING WRONG, FORDSY?_ Bill asks, giving Ford the mental equivalent of a nudge.

“No, no,” he raises his arms in reassurance even though Bill isn’t physically there--not yet anyway. “I’m sorry. Must just be nerves,” he offers.

Ford can’t see Bill, not while awake, but even still, he’s sure his muse’s eye must be turned up in pleasure, _FAIR ENOUGH. WE’VE COME A LONG WAY, YOU AND ME. IT’S GOING TO BE WEIRD TO FINALLY BE DONE WITH THIS WORK, BUT TRUST ME, THE END RESULT IS GONNA_ **_BLOW YOUR MIND._ ** _SO RELAX! THIS IS THE HOME STRETCH, SIXER._

Ford smiles, “You’re right. All we need now is more fuel and to re-run the calibration of the portal. I’ll call Fiddleford to see if he can run the diagnostics to stabilize it.”

_DON’T BOTHER WITH GLASSES. HE’S NOT GONNA PICK UP._

Something like shock jolts Stanford’s body, “He won’t?”

_NOPE. HE’S A LONG WAY FROM HOME. TOOK A TRIP TO DEAL WITH ALL HIS CRAZY, Y’KNOW?_

“Oh,” that’s...unexpected. Granted, a trip will probably do his friend good, but to leave without a goodbye…

_DON’T THINK ON IT TOO MUCH, SIXER,_ Bill says and Ford feels himself physically relax at the words, _ALL THAT MATTERS NOW IS STARTING UP THE PORTAL. I’M SURE YOU’LL SEE OL’ FIDDLEFORD AFTER YOU GET IT OPEN AGAIN._

“I hope so,” the scientist murmurs as he sits back at the portal’s control panel, fingers flying over dials as he begins the manual reboot of the machine.

_I’LL DRAG HIM BACK TO YOU MYSELF, FORDSY. I’M SURE HE’S_ **_DYING TO SEE WHAT HE HELPED CREATE._ ** Bill laughs, long and shrill, leaving goosebumps on Stanford’s skin in its wake.

_It’s fine,_ he reminds himself, _It’s almost done._

He’s not sure why he needs to reassure himself right now. Moreover, he’s not sure why it’s not working. Why his anxiety has yet to be quelled with his goal in sight.

He gazes once more at the empty basement, at the soon-to-be-open portal, at the spot on the floor where he’s sure he’d had some rope tied down for the test dummy...

He’s not sure what he’s forgetting.

_IF IT’S IMPORTANT, YOU’LL REMEMBER IT EVENTUALLY,_ Bill comforts, _IT’S NOT LIKE YOU TO LET THE THINGS THAT MATTER GET PASSED YOU._

Ford’s not so sure, but he takes comfort in his muse’s words. Whatever he’s forgetting, it’s bound to come back to him.

He just hopes that by then, it won’t be too late.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I tried to go sorta Othello on this but like ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I don't know how well it came across lmao
> 
> Anyway, comments and kudos would be appreciated owo


End file.
